Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own this legend at all. Though, I do own a book with it in it ;) There are sososo many legends from Quebec, but this one is my absolute favorite, not that the other's aren't any less awesome.
A/N: This is the famous (famous in Quebec at least) urban legend I brushed upon in chapter 5 of Canadian Refuge. This is a translation that I found off the Internet but that I modified quite a bit in order to make it as close to the original French version as possible. Guys and girls… if you're reading this, I just want to express how happy I am to share this beloved legend with you! I grew up with this tale, and in school I even wrote a couple of dictations (dictées in French) on it! You know that Hetalia episode where Poland and Lithuania are telling each other legends from their respective countries? Well, I gotta say it's one of my favorite episodes! I love it specifically because I got to learn a bit more about those countries and because I love legends. The older the better!
Just a small preview (because I realized that it may be a bit confusing when reading for the first time): This legend is mainly about the time when Joe, the main character and narrator, ran the cursed canoe called the 'chasse-galerie' back in his youth. (I kept this summary very simple, because I wouldn't wanna spoil anything for you guys, now would I?)
Info #1: There are actually quite a few songs and art pieces about this story. An example is the song by Claude Dubois called 'Chasse-Galerie'. As the name suggests, it's a song about the legend. I recommend you have a listen (even though it is entirely in French)! An other honorable mention is the song 'Martin de la Chasse-Galerie' (translation: 'Martin of the Chasse-Galerie', though who the hell is Martin, you may ask? I'm not quite sure myself, but according to the song he's one of the dudes on the chasse-galerie. Bope…) sung by La Bottine Souriante (which basically translates to 'the smiling boot' heh, funny band name in my opinion). That song is also completely in French.
Info #2: In the Vancouver 2010 Olympics Opening Ceremony, there's a part where a man is standing in a canoe high in the air while playing the violin. He's standing in front of a 'honey' full moon while arguing with his misbehaving shadow. Well, just so you know, that was a reference to this legend (the canoe part, and the fact that the dude's hair looks like demon horns)!
Info #3: There are many versions of the Chasse-Galerie legend (sometimes, the characters die and the devil takes them away. Sometimes, they crash on top of a church's cross instead of a tree like in this version) but this is the one by Honoré Beaugrand, which is the most popular version here in Quebec, thus the one you'll hear about most.
Info #4: Speaking of church crosses, did you guys know that Montreal is referred to as 'la ville aux cent clochers', which means 'the city of a hundred bell towers'? That's because Montreal used to have a lot of churches (it still does, but less than before I'd say). Historically speaking, Quebec, as a province, has always been mostly Catholic, whilst the rest of Canada is more Protestant. Anyways, to get back to what I was saying, there still are many churches in Montreal, but the Catholic Church is way less present now compared to how powerful it was a few decades ago. The Church used to control many things, from education to healthcare (specifically hospitals and clinics and whatnot). But now, it's a lot more subdued. I thought maybe that'd be interesting to tell you guys. Because the Catholic Church and its clergy was something you did not want to mess with back in the day…
Info #5: To all of you who don't know, Montreal is an island, just like Venice (sorta... Venice's made up of more than a hundred tiny islands, whereas Montreal is just one single piece of land) and some of New York City. It was founded in 1642 by this French noble Paul Chomedey de Maisonneuve (as explained last chapter). In my honest opinion, it looks like a foot (I dare you guys to Google search Montreal. Doesn't it look like a foot? Or a boomerang?).
…Anyways, enough with the extra info. Have fun reading! -xox
La Chasse-Galerie (known in English as 'The Bewitched Canoe')
The following account is based on a folktale that goes back to the time of the coureurs des bois and the voyageurs of the North-West. The men of the logging camps perpetuated the tradition, and it is those from the Saint Lawrence river area especially that know about the legends of the 'chasse-galerie'. I have met more than one voyageur who has confirmed that he has seen canoes flying through the air filled with the possessed under the spell of Satan going to visit their girlfriends. If I were asked to use more intellectual terms, I would remind those asking that I am telling a story about men whose language is as crude as their difficult craft.
H.B.
"I am going to tell you all a great story. But if there are any here among you who are tempted to run the chasse-galerie or transform into a werewolf, you'd better go attend the barn owls' Sabbath tonight, for I shall begin my story by making the sign of the cross in order to ward off the devil and his minions. I had enough of the damned in my youth."
Not one man left: on the contrary, all came nearer the hearth where the cook finished giving his warning and prepared to tell his story.
It was the night before the New Year of 1858, and they were deep in the forest, at the Ross lumber camp above Gatineau. It had been a tough season, and the snow was already as high as their log cabin rooftops.
Their boss ordered the distribution of the contents of a small barrel of rum among the men according to tradition, and the cook had finished preparing the fricot de pattes (stew made of pigs' feet) and glissantes (a kind of dumpling) for the next day's meal. The molasses was simmering in the big caldron to end the evening's festivities.
Each man had packed his pipe with good Canadian tobacco, and a thick cloud obscured the inside of the cabin where a crackling fire of resinous pine intermittently cast a red tint, illuminating the figures of these rustic woodsmen.
Joe, the cook, was a small disfigured man that the men called 'the hunchback', and had been a woodsman for at least forty years. In that time, he had seen everything, and all it took was a drink of rum to get him to tell stories of his adventures.
"As I was saying", he continued, "even though I was a little rough in my youth, today I don't tolerate the mockery of religion. I go to confession every year and what I'm going to tell you now happened in the days of my youth when I feared neither God nor the devil.
It was a night like this one on New Year's Eve, around thirty-four or thirty-five years ago.
My comrades and I were having a drink around the campfire. But if little streams become great rivers, then little drinks empty large barrels, and in those days we drank much more than we do today. It was not unusual to see our festivities end in fist fights.
I myself had drained a half a dozen drinks, at which point my head was spinning, so I took a nap on my furs while waiting for the jump over the lard barrel from the old year into the new year just like we'll do tonight at midnight, then going visiting and wishing the men in the next camp a happy new year.
I had been sleeping for a while when I was roughly shaken awake by the boss, Baptiste Durand, who told me: 'Joe, midnight just passed and you're late for jumping over the barrel. Our comrades have left for the neighboring camp and I am going to Lavaltrie to see my girlfriend. Do you want to come?'
'Lavaltrie! Are you crazy? We are more than a hundred leagues away. It would take you two months to make the trip through the snow. What about the work to be done the day after New Year's?'
'Idiot, I didn't mean to walk there. We'll take the trip in a canoe and tomorrow morning, at six o'clock, we will be back in the camp.'
I understood.
My boss was suggesting that we run the chasse-galerie and that I risk my eternal salvation for the pleasure of seeing my girlfriend in the village.
It was a little shocking. It was true that I was a little bit of a drunk and a debaucher and that religion didn't mean much to me in those days, but selling my soul to the devil was even beyond me.
'Coward,' exclaimed Baptiste, 'you know well that there is no danger. We'll be in Lavaltrie and back again in six hours. You know well that with the chasse-galerie we travel at least fifty leagues an hour when one knows how to man the oar like we do. We only need to avoid speaking the name of the good Lord during the journey and not crash into the church tower crosses on the way. It's easy to do, and to avoid all danger, all we have to do is think before we speak, keep an eye on where we're going, and not get drunk on the way. I've made the trip five times and you can see that nothing's ever happened to me. Let's go, my friend. Take courage and we'll be in Lavaltrie in two hours. Think of the pleasure of kissing Liza Guimbette. There are already seven of us for the journey, but there needs to be an even number. You will be the eighth.'
'Yes all that is fine, but it requires making a deal with the devil and he is not forgiving when one makes a deal with him.'
'A simple formality, Joe. All we need to do is stay sober, to think before we speak, and to man the oar properly. Come, come! Our companions are waiting outside and the Great canoe for the drave (meaning 'timber rafting', raftsmen in early U.S and Canadian history used to take advantage of the fact that wood floats on water to steer logs down small streams towards the St Lawrence River, where they were then harvested by paper manufacturers) is ready for the voyage.'
I allowed myself to be dragged out of the cabin where I saw six of our men who were waiting for us, oar in hand. The big canoe was in the snow, in the clearing, and before I had the chance to think about it I was already seated in front, oar at the ready. I admit I was a bit troubled, and Baptiste, who hadn't been to confession for seven years, did not leave me any time to think. He was standing in the back and in a loud voice said, 'repeat after me' and we repeated:
'Satan, king of hell, we promise you our souls if in the next six hours we say the name of our master the good Lord, and if we touch a cross during our trip. Under these conditions, you will transport us across the sky to where we wish to go and you will take us back to this same camp. Acabris! Acabras! Acabram! Take us over the mountains!'
We had just pronounced the last words when we felt the canoe lift five or six hundred feet in the air. I felt as light as a feather, and at the command of Baptiste, we started to row as though possessed.
At the first strokes of the oar the canoe shot through the air like an arrow, and it was then that it could be said that the devil was truly carrying us. It took away our breath, and the hairs of our wolverine fur hats were trembling in the breeze.
We flew faster than the wind. For a quarter of an hour, we navigated above the forest without seeing anything else other than the tops of the great pines.
The night was superb, and the moon illuminated the heavens like a beautiful noonday sun.
It was very cold and our mustaches were covered in frost as we were all rowing. All this was understandable since it was the devil who was guiding us, and I assure you all that it was not at a slow pace.
We soon saw a light in the distance; it was Gatineau wherein the light reflecting off the ice shone above us. Then little by little we saw the lights in the houses and then the church towers that glimmered like the bayonets of soldiers training on the Champ-de-Mars of Montreal.
We were passing the bell towers as fast as telegraph poles when traveling by train. And we still flew like demons shooting over the villages, forests, and rivers whilst leaving a shining trail behind us. It was Baptiste, the possessed one, that was steering since he knew the way and we soon arrived at the Ottawa river, which was our guide, in order to descend toward the lac des Deux Montagnes (Lake of Two Mountains).
'Wait a second' cried Baptiste. 'We're going to fly low over Montréal to scare those who are still awake and celebrating. Joe, clear your throat and sing us a rowing song.'
We already saw the many lights of the big city, and Baptiste, with one stroke of the oar, made us descend near the towers of Notre-Dame. I took out my chewing tobacco to make sure I didn't swallow it, and I belted out this song for the occasion that all the rowers repeated together:
Mon père n'avait fille que moi (I was my father's only daughter),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly),
Et dessus la mer il m'envoie (And over the sea he sends me):
Canot d'écorce qui vole, qui vole (Birchbark canoe that flies, that flies),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly)!
Et dessus la mer il m'envoie (And over the sea he sends me),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly),
Le marinier qui me menait (The sailor who takes me):
Canot d'écorce qui vole, qui vole (Birchbark canoe that flies, that flies),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly)!
Le marinier qui me menait (The sailor who takes me),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly),
Me dit ma belle embrassez-moi (Says, kiss me my lovely):
Canot d'écorce qui vole, qui vole (Birchbark canoe that flies, that flies),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly)!
Me dit, ma belle, embrassez-moi (Says, kiss me my lovely),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly),
Non, non, monsieur, je ne saurais (No, no, sir, I will not):
Canot d'écorce qui vole, qui vole (Birchbark canoe that flies, that flies),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly)!
Non, non, monsieur, je ne saurais (No, no, sir, I will not),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly),
Car si mon papa le savait (Because if my dad knew):
Canot d'écorce qui vole, qui vole (Birchbark canoe that flies, that flies),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly)!
Car si mon papa le savait (Because if my dad knew),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly),
Ah c'est bien sûr qu'il me battrait (Ah, he would surely beat me):
Canot d'écorce qui vole, qui vole (Birchbark canoe that flies, that flies),
Canot d'écorce qui va voler (Birchbark canoe that will fly)!
Around two in the morning, we saw groups of people stopping in the streets to look at us go by, but we were flying so fast that in the blink of an eye we had left Montreal and its suburbs behind. I started to count the church towers: those of Longue-Pointe, Pointe-aux-Trembles, Repentigny, Saint-Sulpice, and, finally, the two silver points of Lavaltrie that dominated the green summit of the region's great pines.
'Attention!' shouted Baptiste, 'We are going to land near the entrance of the forest in my godfather Jean-Jean Gabriel's field and then we'll go find some celebrations in the neighborhood.'
We did as he said, and five minutes later our canoe rested in a snow bank near Jean-Jean Gabriel's forest; all eight of us headed to the village. It was no easy task since there was no path through the snow, which came right up to our rears.
Baptiste, more excited than the others, went to knock on his godfather's door where we could still see lights on, but only a servant girl was home and told Baptiste that almost all of the older folk had gone to a banquet at Father Robillard's house, but that the boys and girls of the parish were all at Batissette Augé's place, at the Petite-Misère (Little-Misery), below Contrecoeur, on the other side of the river, where there was a New Year's jig.
'Let's go to the jig at Batissette Augé's!' said Baptiste, 'We're certain to see our girlfriends there.'
'Let's go to Batissette's!' we cried together. We then returned to the canoe while remembering the dangers of drinking and not watching what we said, because we had to be able to retake the same route and get back before six in the morning, otherwise we would be damned like burning wolverines on a stake and the devil would take us to the depths of hell.
'Acabris! Acabras! Acabram! Carry us over the mountains!' shouted Baptiste once more.
And then we were all headed for la Petite-Misère while navigating through the air like the renegades that we were. With two strokes of the oar we had crossed the river and had arrived at Batissette Augé's where the lights were still on. We could hear the vague sounds of a fiddle playing and the laughter of the dancers, whose shimmering shadows we saw through the frosted windows.
We hid our canoe by the shore.
Baptiste repeated, 'Comrades, don't be foolish and be careful with what you say! Let's dance like madmen, but don't drink a single glass of Molson (a Canadian brand of beer) nor rum, do you understand? And at my signal, follow me because we need to leave without attracting attention.'
Then we went to knock on the door.
Father Batissette came to answer and we were welcomed with open arms by all the visitors whom we mostly all knew.
We were greeted with many questions:
'Where did you all come from?'
'I thought you were in the camp!'
'You've arrived late enough!'
'Come have a drink!'
Baptiste said: 'Give us a second to take off our coats and then let us dance a little. We came purposefully to dance. Tomorrow morning, I'll answer all of your questions and we'll tell you everything you want to know.'
I located Liza Guimbette and noticed the lil' Boisjoli of Lanoraie boasting to her.
I approached her to say hello and to ask her for the next dance, a reel. She accepted with a smile that made me forget that I had risked my soul for the pleasure of her company.
During the next two hours we danced incessantly and there was not another who danced as I did. My comrades enjoyed themselves like little devils and the local guys were utterly annoyed by all of us by the time four o'clock came around.
I thought I saw Baptiste Durand approach the buffet where men were taking swigs of white whisky (moonshine) from time to time, but I was so busy dancing with Liza that I didn't really take notice. But when it was time to get back in the canoe, I could clearly see that Baptiste was drunk, and I had to take him by the arm and drag him out with me while signaling to the others to follow without attracting attention.
We left one after another without drawing any attention, and five minutes later we were once more in the canoe after being uncivilized and leaving the dance without saying goodbye to anyone, not even Liza who I'd invited for a dance. I've since thought that that was why she acted foolishly and married Boisjoli instead of me, even going as far as to not invite me to the wedding.
But to get back to the story of the canoe, we were quite disappointed to see that Baptiste had drank because it was he who steered us, and we only had but enough time to get back to the camp by six in the morning. The moon had disappeared, the night was no longer moonlit like before and it was not without fear that I took my spot at the front of the canoe, keeping an eye on our route. Before we were lifted into the air, I turned back to Baptiste and said: 'Hey! Listen to me, my friend. Steer directly toward Mont-Royal (a mountain in Montreal, called Mount Royal in English) as soon as you see it.'
'I know what I'm doing,' responded Baptiste, 'so mind your own business!'
He then repeated before I had a chance to speak: 'Acabris! Acabras! Acabram! Take us over the mountains!'
And then we were off at a great speed. But it became immediately obvious that our navigator was not as steady-handed as before by how the canoe was zigzagging every which way. We passed not more than one hundred feet from the tower of Contrecoeur and instead of steering us west towards Montréal, Baptiste took us toward Richelieu. We bounced like a ball over Beloeil mountain and we had been only ten feet away from crashing into the great cross the bishop of Quebec had erected there.
'Go right, Baptiste! To the right! You're going to damn us all to hell if you don't steer better than that!'
Then Baptiste turned the canoe to the right, aiming for Mont-Royal in the distance.
I swear I began to shake a little with fear because if Baptiste continued to steer this way, we would be roasted like piglets on a fire (an expression meaning 'to be damned').
I assure you that we did not expect the rapid descent that came.
The moment we passed over Mont-Royal, Baptiste dropped us straight down, and in the blink of an eye, we were lodged in a snow bank at the side of the mountain. Luckily, the snow was soft and no one came to harm, plus the canoe was in one piece.
But just as we had removed ourselves from the snow, Baptiste began to curse like a madman and argued that he wanted to go into town to have a drink before heading back to Gatineau. I tried to reason with him, but try to argue successfully with a drunk who wants to wet his whistle! And so, reaching the end of my patience, and instead of abandoning our souls to the devil already licking his chops at seeing us in that state, I had a word with all my other comrades who were just as afraid as I was. We thus threw ourselves on Baptiste while trying not to do him harm, to then toss him at the bottom of the canoe after having tied him up like a sausage, and gagged him to prevent him from uttering anything dangerous while we were in the air.
So we repeated the words and were on our way again, going at a devilish pace since we only had one hour to get to the camp in Gatineau. I steered this time, and I can assure you I had my eyes open and my arm steady. We raced up la rivière Outaouais (the Ottawa river in English) all the way to Pointe-à-Gatineau, and from there we headed north toward the camp.
We were only a few leagues away when that devil Baptiste managed to untie himself, take the gag out of his mouth, and stand up in the middle of the canoe to then let loose a string of curses that made me shudder to the very tips of my hair.
It was impossible to wrestle him down in the canoe without risking a plummet of two to three hundred feet. The fool was jerking about like a hanged man, threatening us all with his oar that he was swinging about his head like an Irish man with his shillelagh. We were in a horrible fix as you can well understand. But luckily, we arrived. However, I was so excited that through a misstep while trying to dodge Baptiste's oar, I sent the canoe hurtling into the top of a tall pine, and suddenly we were falling, hitting every branch like a grouse shot out of a tree.
I don't know how long it took to hit the ground because I lost consciousness before then, and my last memory was as that of a man dreaming of plunging down a bottomless well.
Around eight in the morning I woke up in my bed in our cabin where our comrades, who had found us plunged neck-deep in the snow, had taken us. Nobody broke their neck thankfully, but I don't think I need to tell you about the stiffness in my ribs – not to mention my black eye and the few cuts on my hands and face. Most importantly, the devil hadn't taken us away, and I don't need to tell you that I didn't want to contradict the story that our comrades had found us passed out and rum-drunk in a snow bank. It was already bad enough that I had almost sold my soul to the devil, and it wasn't until years later that I told the real story of what happened.
All I can tell you, my friends, is that it's not as fun as they say rowing through the air in the dead of winter, running the chasse-galerie just to see your girlfriend in town. If you believe my story, then you'll wait until the summer to go see your girlfriends without making a deal with the devil."
Then, Joe plunged his spoon into the golden boiling molasses, and declared that it was ready.
End ~ Fin
Coureurs des bois: Were basically outlaws. They were often these 'homeless' French or French-Amerindians that were trappers in North America (especially French Canada) and would basically live in the forests where conditions were often harsh. They used to participate actively in the Fur Trade (actually, they kinda started the whole trade) by selling and exchanging furs (especially beaver furs) between the Native Peoples and European settlers. They're known as 'wood-runners' in English. I learnt a lot about these guys in history class back in high school haha. In pictures, they're often seen wearing fur hats with a beaver (or raccoon) tail sticking out in the back. 'Coureur' means 'runner', and 'des bois' means 'of the woods' or just 'the woods', hence the name.
A 'voyageur': Is pretty much the same thing as a wood-runner, but was not an outlaw. What I mean by that is these guys had a trading permit from the king of France himself which let them trade and exchange furs legally. If what I remember from high school history is correct, I think they came a bit after the wood-runners.
A shillelagh: Is, according to google 'a thick stick of blackthorn or oak used in Ireland, typically used as a weapon'. Hmm… interesting.
Champ-de-Mars: Now a public park, it used to be a military training ground here in Montreal (specifically in Old Montreal). Mars is the Roman god of war, and thus that's why the name was fitting. Also, the Latin term 'campus Martius' basically signifies military exercise ground. In today's times, it's also become the name of a metro station (actually, it's the station I get off at when I wanna go to Old Montreal hehe), and a hotel (which happens to be close by to the metro station and park bearing the same name). Also, if you want to know a bit more about France, there's a place (a large public greenspace, according to google) with the same name in Paris. Word for word, 'champ' means 'field', and 'de Mars' means 'of Mars' or 'from Mars', depending on the context. Mars in French either means the month of March or the planet Mars in English.
A/N: Acabris Acabras Acabram and it's done! Ooooh I just knew I had to write that lol. I hope you guys liked this! The original version of this legend (in French by Honoré Beaugrand) is super easy to find (Just google it and it pops up right away), but to find an official version in English? I don't know if that even exists honestly. Regardless, I'm so glad that I found a translation on the Internet (and all I had to do was fix things here and there, oh the joys of the Internet!) instead of me having to translate the whole thing on my own. Even if I hadn't found one, I would have translated it anyways just so you guys could read this, because it just so happens that each and every one of you matter to me. To you, my precious readers (especially those from outside of Canada), just know that it makes me positively happy to see that you're interested in my country. It's great if you are, and know that I am just as interested in your own respective country and culture. I find it incredible that you guys are at least a bit curious about Canada's early years. And what better way to get an idea of what it's all about than a super old urban legend dating from before the war over Canada between the French and the English (because yes, that's how old this legend is. Very old, indeed…)?
Thank you for taking the time to read this. I trust that chapter 5 makes more sense now that you know about the legend Matthew and Lovino were talking about hehe.
Lots and lots of smooches from Canada,
~SHnM
